Don't Stop Running
by TheStoriesOfUs
Summary: "Meltdown may be happening, but it'll happen without you." Devin gets a different idea on the night of the movie premiere and decides to have a little more of a personal meeting with Michael.
1. Chapter 1: Meltdown

_Hello! Old readers, welcome to another fic; new readers, welcome! This is another Michael/Amanda fic (a criminally underrated relationship in my biased opinion) and is told primarily from their POV. Without spoiling too much, this fic is about if Meltdown had gone in a little bit of a different way…_

 _As always, enjoy, review, and all of that stuff!_

* * *

Lazy rays of sun streamed through the curtains, illuminating their room in a haze of soft reds and yellows. The couple was still in bed, closer to each other than they had been in months, and their hearts thumped against each other through thin layers of clothes and blankets. It was well past morning now, but one of them still wasn't quite willing to get up yet.

"Come on, babe, jus' stay for a few more minutes…" Michael mumbled pleadingly, face pressed into his wife's hair and arms wrapped tightly around her waist. He inhaled the faint scent of her flowery shampoo, a comforting smell he'd been missing too much for the past two months. "It's been so long since we've been like this…"

Amanda gently squirmed against him, trying to get up. "Darling, I am _so_ glad that we're together again and I love it when you act like this...but in case you're too tired and forgot: your big movie premiere _is_ today and I need to get ready…" she said, trying to distract herself from how soft his t-shirt was against her skin and the way his body pressed against her, warm and every type of secure.

His eyes darted towards the clock, and he raised his eyebrows in confusion when he saw what the faded digital numbers burning into his eyes were. "The hell…? It's only noon, babe," he said groggily. "Thing doesn't start for like nine more hours…"

She sighed dramatically and shook her head. "Oh, Michael. You sweet, simple man," she said in a faux-pitying tone, kissing him on the cheek. "Guys like you take a ten minute shower, _maybe_ shave, get dressed, and then you're ready." Glancing over at the clock herself, she frowned. "And girls like Tracey and I...well...I'm just saying that you and Jimmy will be lucky if we make it there on time."

"What _do_ you even do for that long?" he wondered. Over twenty years of being married and having a daughter and he still couldn't quite grasp what exactly they did for hours in the bathroom.

"A lot of boring shit that'll take forever to explain," she sighed before patting him on the chest and managing to disentangle herself from his arms. "Anyway, you should get some more sleep while I go get ready…"

"But I can't sleep without you," he pleaded from the bed. It was true; the only sleep he'd gotten lately was usually alcohol-induced and was almost always interrupted by a nightmare or his insomnia acting up. The past couple nights ever since she'd came back home had been the best he'd slept in months.

"Okay, fine, I'll stay with you until you fall back asleep" she said softly, getting back into bed and under the covers. "But only because you got home at about 4AM last night. You know...what _were_ you doing out that late? I normally wouldn't even wanna know, but now…"

"No, it's fine," he said, snuggling back into her with a hum of contentment. "Franklin needed my help and it took a little bit longer than I thought, that's all…"

Amanda reached up and started running her hand through his hair, much to his happiness. In the minute or two that she'd been back in the bed, she could already feel the tension start to drain from him and the telltale signs of falling asleep start to replace it. "You'd really do anything for that kid, huh?"

He nodded, his eyes starting to flutter back shut. "He's a good kid, Amanda. Plus, he saved my ass a few weeks ago so I figured I needed to help him out for once, too…" Michael muttered before falling back asleep right there before she could ask what that last part meant. _Whatever_ , she thought. It was probably nothing too serious, anyway.

Despite her earlier words, she stayed in bed for a good few minutes afterward; partly to make sure he stayed asleep, and mostly because of the gentle, soft way he held her in his arms. Just as she delicately started to get up, he stirred a little and mumbled, "Love you, 'Manda," before his soft snores resumed.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead before getting up. "Love you, too," she whispered.

* * *

By the time that he woke up nearly three hours later, he was-true to his wife's word-shit out of luck. Amanda was in their master bathroom and Tracey was in the other, and neither seemed to show any signs of budging anytime soon.

After pathetically trying his luck with the latter and all but being told to fuck off by Tracey and that she needed to "concentrate,", he was back with pleading with Amanda. "'Mand, please. I just need a few minutes to shower…" he said, trailing off as he thought back to their conversation from earlier and scratching at the stubble on his face, "...and shave."

That seemed to do it. She opened the door, smirking. Judging by her hair up in a towel and the fluffy robe wrapped around her body, she must have just gotten out of the shower herself. "Alright, darling," she said, holding the door open and gesturing for him to go inside. "Since you asked so nicely."

Michael sighed in relief and stepped inside, immediately overwhelmed by the strong scent of her overpriced (and admittedly _really_ nice) fruity soaps and shampoos. "Jesus, babe. Did you use half of the damn bottle?" he asked in disbelief. "You know how much that shit costs…"

" _Maybe…_ " she said with a mischievous glint in her eyes, crossing back over to the counter where she had a decade's worth of makeup sprawled out in front of her. "And yeah, it may be expensive, but it's still a thousand times better than that industrial 'two-in-one shampoo and conditioner' crap that you still use…"

"Hey, I _like_ that crap," he protested. Over twenty years of using it and his hair was still as thick as it had been in the '90s, which was way more than he could say for someone like Trevor. Plus, it didn't smell bad, either… "And I know you don't mind it judging by the way you act when I get outta the shower…"

"Okay, _fine_ : you do smell really nice afterwards," she admitted, sighing when she saw him raise an eyebrow as if to press her further. "...and your hair _is_ annoyingly soft, which frustrates the hell out of me, by the way…"

"Aw, thanks, babe," he said, smirking as he headed towards the shower. Acutely aware of her staring at him, he slipped off his clothes and took an extra long moment to actually step inside the stall of their of their pricey, pure glass shower. He knew damn well that she could see him, and she knew that he could see the blush forming on her face before he turned on the water.

Amanda could knock his choice his choice in shampoo all she wanted, but there was one thing she never complained about: his soap. Soon enough, his own scent overpowered hers, and the bathroom soon smelled of his beloved 'industrial crap' and soap.

Ten minutes later (he swore Amanda had it down to a fucking science), he stepped out of the stall feeling better than he'd been in months. Michael dried himself off and carelessly ran a towel through his hair before wrapping it around his waist.

He joined his wife at the mirror, who was trying to concentrate on twirling the ends of her hair around her curling iron. "Surprised you didn't hop in with me judging by the way you were actin' back there," Michael said with a laugh as he swept his dripping hair back from his forehead.

"Oh, believe me, I was getting tempted," she said, "but I didn't wanna have to redo all this shit, so sorry, babe."

"Ah, damn," he muttered sarcastically as he pulled out his razor and started slathering shaving cream on his cheeks. "Maybe you'll show me that little dress of yours as an apology, then?" he asked hopefully while he started to shave away the thick layer of stubble forming on his jaw.

Amanda scoffed, eyes narrowed with something between concentration and annoyance. "For the millionth time, it's a _surprise_. You know how much I want tonight to be perfect, Michael. And besides, if tonight goes well, who knows? Maybe you'll get to take it off later," she said with a wink.

He ran a wet washcloth over the remnants of shaving cream on his face, sighing. "Damn it, Mandy, you sure know how to keep me waiting…"

 _I know_ , her smirk seemed to say. "Love you!" she said, pressing a kiss to his clean-shaven cheek before he could protest. Her lips soon traveled over to his ear, warm breath tickling against his skin as she whispered, "You look really hot when you shave, by the way."

Oh, it was gonna be a _long_ few hours until the premiere…

* * *

Michael stood outside of Ponsonbys, leaning against his car door and checking his watch. _7:00pm._ It'd cut a little close, but he'd make it. _Can't say that for the girls, though,_ he thought with a laugh. He just hoped his son (and ride) would be on time, he reflected, pulling out his phone and calling Jimmy, who answered on the second ring.

"Mr. Big Movie Producer!" his son greeted him happily.

"Hey, Jim, you're still coming to the premiere, right?" Michael asked, tapping his foot against the pavement anxiously. He had to admit: he was a little nervous. It was, without a doubt, the biggest night of his life and he was determined to not fuck it up.

"Oh, yeah! It's like my one hope of getting laid _ever_. I'm all over it," Jimmy said. "I got us a sweet ride for tonight. Y'know...that reminds me that we should totally have a chauffeur on staff now that you're a movie producer and all…"

Michael had to chuckle at that. _Of course._ "Let's just get the first show out the door, okay?" he said. "Pick me up at Ponsonbys, alright? I just need to pick up my tux."

"Alright, Dad, I'm on my way. You better have a badass tux!"

A smirk crossed his face. "Oh, you better believe it, kid. I'll see you soon," he said before hanging up. He walked towards the store with a confidence he hadn't had in a _long_ time.

Ponsonbys had been his favorite store since the moment his plane had landed in early 2004. It had always represented the unattainable wealth he could've never had back in North Yankton, so the day they'd gotten there he'd traded out his old flannels and t-shirts for tailored suits and dress shirts. Now, standing there inhaling the scents of the expensive cologne and perfume, he felt like he'd finally made it in Los Santos.

He'd had the tuxedo made the second Solomon had told him about the premiere; he'd been too excited to do anything else but daydream of this night.

One interaction with the ever-cold cashier and ten-thousand dollars later, he stood in the back dressing room, looking at himself in the mirror. From this angle, he almost _didn't_ look like a forty-five year old, washed-up bank robber, but looked more like the twenty-three year old, up and coming bank robber that he'd been on his wedding night.

"Who's that handsome devil?" he muttered to himself, adjusting his tie and smirking at his reflection before heading back outside.

Jimmy, much to his annoyance, wasn't there yet. "On my way, my ass," Michael muttered under his breath. He stuffed his old clothes into his car and grabbed his pack of cigarettes before resigning himself to his fate.

"Time to wait…" he said, sighing and putting a cigarette in between his lips as he walked towards the side alley by the store (Rockford Hills was big on the whole "no smoking" thing).

He had just brought his lighter up to the Redwood when his phone started ringing in his pocket. He immediately grabbed it, expecting to see Jimmy or Amanda calling him. Instead, he was greeted with Devin _fucking_ Weston's overtly smug profile picture.

"Ah, shit…" he mumbled under his breath before answering it. "Hey, Devin...look, I need to say, about Molly, man, I'm sorry. But I didn't do it-"

"I told you to slow it down, Slick," Devin's voice was angry and seething, so different from his usual annoying cockiness. He had to admit, it made him a little nervous. Needless to say, they weren't friends after the whole movie studio incident.

"It was an _accident_ , okay?" Michael stressed, too busy trying to explain the shitty situation to notice the massive Mesa pulling up outside the alley. "I was there, but I had nothing to do with it."

"Sure, yeah, hey," Devin cut him off dismissively. "You made a fool out of me, Michael, and that is _not_ something that I'm going to forget!"

"Look, Devin, I said I'm _sorry._ I feel bad for you...but you don't threaten me, 'cause this movie's happening, alright?" Michael's voice had taken on a hard edge by this point as he angrily paced the length of the alley. He let out a deep breath, figuring it was useless to piss off the billionaire further. "But let's just calm down, and try to be friends again."

"Oh, _absolutely,_ Slick. Forgive and forget. Namaste," Devin snapped before hanging up on him.

"Fuck!" Michael growled as he tossed his forgotten cigarette to the ground. He sighed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. _Whatever_ , he thought. The movie premiere was in an hour, whether Devin liked it or not.

About a minute after his ill-fated phone call, his phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Devin himself. _"Meltdown may be happening, but it'll happen without you."_

"The hell…?" Michael muttered under his breath, instinctively reaching for the inside of his jacket to where he usually kept his pistol, but found it empty. _Shit,_ he thought in a panic. He'd left the holster in the car. He immediately broke out in a run down the alley in a dead sprint towards his car. It was a death threat if he'd ever heard one, and he knew he needed to act fast.

Michael didn't even see the guy in front of him until he ran into him, falling onto his ass as if he'd run straight into a brick wall. Looking up at the guy, he may as well have: the guy was at least a half a foot taller than himself (and Michael was a pretty tall guy himself) and was about two hundred pounds of pure muscle.

"Ah, shit, sorry, man," Michael stuttered out as he scrambled to his feet and stepped in front of the other guy. "Didn't notice you there-"

He didn't even get the rest of the sentence out before the distinctive _click_ of a switchblade popping into place sounded through the air and there was a knife against his back

"Don't fucking move or it goes into your throat," a low, gravelly voice hissed into his ear. The knife twisted deeper into his back, piercing through his clothes and a little bit of skin, drawing small beads of blood.

"Alright, okay," Michael said calmly, mentally mourning the loss of his expensive tux. He allowed the unknown assailant to drag him back into the dark alleyway and throw him hard against the brick wall. "So, what do you want? My wallet?" he asked almost boredly, not really having the energy or the time right now to get mugged.

"Nah. I want something a little more than that…" The other man grabbed him by his shirt collar and turned him around. Michael's eyes widened when he saw the distinctive Merryweather logo on his shirt. "Devin Weston sent us for you. I guess I'm just the lucky guy to find you first…"

The knife pressed into his cheek next, blood forming along the edges of the blade.

Michael grimaced in pain. "And you're here to...what? Kill me? Obviously not since you would have done it already," he said sarcastically, though his voice was starting to shake a little.

"Oh, I'm not gonna kill you. Mr. Weston gave us specific instructions not to." With no warning, the mercenary balled his other hand up into a fist and punched him in the stomach. Michael fell to his knees in shock and pain, wheezing, and stubbornly tried to stand back up before earning a punch to the jaw. "This is what happens when you fuck with Merryweather."

Since being intimidating obviously wasn't working, Michael tried to turn up the charm. "You're right. I shouldn't have gotten into your guys' business. Just let me go and-"

The fist met his mouth next, making his blood splatter across the pavement. "Shut the fuck up, okay? It's not gonna make things any easier for you."

For once in his life, Michael didn't have any smart comments or sarcastic remarks to shoot back. He just let himself be beat into submission until he couldn't even try to fight back anymore.

By the time that the mercenary seemed to have exhausted his anger, Michael was laying bloody and beaten on the edge of unconsciousness, barely paying any attention to the mercenary standing above him on the phone.

"...Yes, I got him, Mr. Weston," he said monotonously, pausing and glancing over at Michael as Devin no doubt said some dumb shit. "No, he's alive. Just had a little fun with him is all. I'll bring him back to you in one piece…"

 _Maybe this is it_ , Michael thought hazily as he looked up at the distracted Merryweather agent. His chance to get the hell out while he could. He got onto his fours, glancing up to the freedom of his car only a short run away, and started to get up to run as fast as he could. _This is it-_

The mercenary didn't even look down from his phone before he gave Michael a swift, hard kick in the ribs, sending him sprawling back down to the ground. The loud _crack_ sounding through his body made sure he didn't get back up again. Michael finally cried out in pain, clutching his injured side with his hand. Some of his ribs were definitely fractured, if not broken. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but only stuttering attempts of words could come out.

His attacker finally hung up the phone and looked down at him in something like admiration. "Goddamn, you're a fighter though…" he mused before leaning down and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt with only a whimper of protest coming from Michael. He started dragging him back towards the Merryweather-issued Mesa as if he weighed no more than a feather.

"Let's go get you to Weston…"

* * *

Amanda had never been more nervous and excited in her life than the moment she'd set foot on the red carpet. It all felt like a dream, or a scene straight out of one of her husband's favorite movies: the plush red carpet, the camera flashes, the fireworks, and, oh God, the _celebrities_. She felt her legs shake a little and became absentmindedly thankful that her heels weren't _too_ high.

"Holy _shit_ , Mom," Tracey whispered in her ear, voice a mixture of excitement and awe. While Amanda was nervous, her daughter was anything but. She was practically lapping up the attention from the paparazzi and the younger actors.

 _This is probably heaven for her,_ Amanda noted with a soft smile. "Well, if things go well tonight, I'm sure your father will get us invited to a _lot_ more of these," she said, smiling over at the cameras herself.

"Yeah, I hope so," Tracey said, eyes bright with happiness before a thoughtful look crossed her face. "You know, where _are_ they? Dad and Jimmy, I mean."

Amanda shrugged indifferently. "Probably trying to be fashionably late. Your father's never been the most punctual guy, anyway," she said, but a nervousness still started to nag at her. He wouldn't be late for this, right? He'd been way more excited for it than her and Tracey combined.

"Whatever, I don't mind waiting," Tracey said, fluttering her made-up eyelashes at one of the actors before her gaze flitted over to some guy doing something for a Weazel News. "Oh, hi, Lazlow!"

The guy, who had very poorly done piercings on his face and one of the most questionable haircuts Amanda had ever seen, immediately panicked. "Ah, shit! Come on, shit dick!" he told his cameraman, muttering, "Her dad is _fucking crazy, trust me,_ " as he ran off inside the movie theater.

Both of the girls immediately burst out laughing at the encounter. "What was that about?" Amanda said through her giggles.

"Oh, Dad can tell you all about that one. It's a fucking hilarious story," Tracey said with a smirk.

"I bet," Amanda said, looking around the red carpet anxiously, hoping to find her husband, but saw a familiar face instead. "Oh, thank God…" she muttered under her breath before walking over to him and the much-younger girl draped over his arm. "Mr. Richards!"

Solomon's face immediately brightened at the sight of her. "Amanda, darling!" he greeted her happily. Michael had introduced them a few days ago, and the older producer had quickly taken a liking to her ( _"You're not like all those brain-dead Vinewood trophy wives," Solomon had told her. "Michael is one lucky man!")_. "And, please, call me Solomon."

She smiled at him in relief. "Alright, _Solomon._ I'm just glad to see a familiar face here."

"Yeah, the first premiere will do that to ya. One moment you're a fresh-faced guppy banging all the actresses and the next you're a lecherous old has-been on his last legs!" Solomon said in the same happy, booming tone he always used. "But I digress! Tell me, Amanda, how are you?"

"I mean, the whole thing's amazing so far, really," she said almost breathlessly, still a little overwhelmed by the whole thing. "...but have you seen Michael? I can't find him anywhere and I thought he'd be here by now…"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Solomon said, frowning. "I haven't seen the kid yet, but I know he'll turn up. He wouldn't miss this for the world!"

"I know, but…" she started, before being cut off by the older man, who was glancing down at the watch.

"Ah, shit. Listen, I have to get in there, but come find me when he gets here, alright? I'll see ya in there, kid!" Solomon said before calling out to the young actor Tracey was currently flirting with. "I wouldn't do that, Milton! Mr. De Santa would _not_ be happy if you were cozying up with his little girl!"

The actor immediately looked up like a deer in headlights and practically ran away from Tracey and over to where Solomon was being escorted inside by his security detail.

"Damn, he was cute, too," Tracey pouted, rolling her eyes.

In any other circumstance, Amanda's overprotective mom instincts would've kicked in and she would've been disapproving the boy her daughter was trying to get with. Right now, though, she had other things on her mind.

"Where the hell is he?" Amanda asked nervously, looking around the nearly empty red carpet. Right as she'd been tempted to just go in, with or without her husband and son, her phone started to ring from her purse.

She immediately answered it, anger seeping into her words as she started to berate her son. " _James Michael De Santa_ ," she started, using his full name that she only reserved for when she was _really_ pissed off. "Where the _hell_ are you and your father?! I've been worried sick-"

"Mom," her son started in a quivering voice, stopping her rant dead in its tracks. "I-I don't know where he is. I can't find him…"

Her blood immediately ran cold as her son confirmed her worst fears. "Wh-what are you talking about?" she stuttered, trying to ignore Tracey walking over and trying to interrupt her.

"I-I'm where he said he'd meet me and he's not here...his car's here but...but I can't find him. I swear, I've looked _everywhere,_ Mom," he said, panting, and she could hear him walk around before her son let out a frantic curse of, "Oh, fuck…"

"What is it? Are you okay?!" she asked, clutching the phone to her ear tightly.

"I am, but, _Jesus_ , Mom, there's so much blood over here...and it looks new…" Jimmy trailed off, voice quavering.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ the mantra in Amanda's head chanted. "Listen, Jimmy, honey, I want you to get the hell out of there _right now_ , okay? Come find me and your sister and we'll handle things from there," she demanded, earning a shaky "okay" for her son before she hung up.

"Mom, what the fuck is happening?" Tracey asked her frantically the second the phone left Amanda's ear.

"I...I don't know, but I think your father is in trouble. We need to get out of here-" Amanda said, grabbing her daughter's hand and starting to lead her back to the car before a red Pegassi Vacca pulled up behind her convertible, and a grey-haired man in a tuxedo stepped out.

"Ah, you must be Mrs. De Santa," he said smoothly, eyes creepily roaming up and down her body. "Michael has talked a _lot_ about you…"

 _I really don't have time for this,_ she thought frustratedly. "Uh huh," she drawled out boredly. "And who the hell are you?"

"Devin Weston. Billionaire investor," he said arrogantly, as if it was supposed to impress her. When she just stood there with the same annoyed expression on her face, he rolled his eyes and started to walk towards the theater, smugly saying, "A shame your husband couldn't make it. Looks like he got _stuck_ at the store."


	2. Chapter 2: Hunters And Foxes

_Hello! Welcome back to another chapter :D I'm gonna try to update this story every two weeks this time around, so be on the lookout for that. In this chapter, Amanda enlists the help of some unlikely allies to find Michael while Michael deals with what torment Devin has planned for him._

 _As always, enjoy, review, blah, blah, blah, and all of that stuff!_

* * *

He woke up. It could have been a few hours later or a few days later, he wasn't quite sure, but he was sure of one thing: everything hurt. Each labored breath sent pain coursing through every inch of his body. His ribs (at least a couple were smashed, he knew that now) screamed in pain every time he so much as moved and his head was killing him. Michael instinctively tried to move to get up only to find his wrists and ankles tied to a stiff wooden chair.

 _What the hell happened?_ he wondered hazily as he struggled against the straps.

Snippets of memories from the night surged through his mind: that phone call with Devin, that threat he'd sent him afterward, that mercenary beating the hell out of him. He remembered a van. Remembered waking up only to be hit in the head with something (A crowbar? A gun, maybe?). Darkness again. And now he was here, wherever that was, tied up with zero fucking clue of what to do.

He took a weary look around, trying to gauge his surroundings. It was an old warehouse, judging by the rusted equipment laying around, and the place seemed eerily silent aside from his own grunts of struggle. The single light bulb dangling right above his head seemed a little cliché, he thought with a lopsided smile. Looking down, he saw splatters of his own blood on the ground and winced. They'd probably had a little fun with him once he got there, too.

Whatever the case was, he needed to get the hell outta there before they came back. He fought hard against the ties around his arms, making a little progress, but not much. Soon enough, his wrists were chafed red and bleeding, the sleeves of his white shirt soon turning red. They'd taken his suit jacket, he'd noticed, leaving him with only the button-up underneath. Bastards.

Michael had just about broken the first strap when he heard the footsteps. He started going faster, frantically trying to set himself free. "C'mon, you piece of…"

He couldn't even finish the rest of his curse before Devin and his Merryweather goons walked in. "Ah, you're awake!" Devin said eagerly, clapping his hands together with an evil glint in his eyes. "Sorry about your head, we had to knock you out for a bit. You woke up during transport and Menendez here can get a little, well, overzealous. Is that the word?"

"If by that you mean that I'll beat the shit out of him, then yeah," one of the mercenaries said with a laugh. Michael recognized him as the guy he'd ran into outside of Ponsonbys and felt brief, misdirected hate flow through him.

"Screw you, asshole," Michael spat out. His head was still ringing-he probably had a concussion on top of the other shit wrong with him-and his lip was bleeding freely, yet he sat up straighter and glared defiantly at his captors.

"Hey, I gave you a fair warning, Michael. Not my fault that your ass was too slow to act on it. Honestly, you should be grateful for this. I _was_ gonna send my guys out for a hit against your wife and daughter, who are both _really_ hot by the way," Devin said with a smirk, making the red mist descend upon Michael. "...but by then they were already at the premiere and you were out in the open by yourself. It was an opportunity that I could _not_ pass up! And who knows? Maybe once this thing's over and you're six feet under, I'll comfort the grieving widow-"

" _Fuck you_ , Devin! You won't lay _a goddamn finger_ on my family!" Michael yelled, throwing himself against the restraints with every last ounce of his strength. Before he himself even knew what was happening, one of the ties around his wrist had snapped and his fist was connecting with Devin's stupidly smug face. He could hear the satisfying _crunch_ of bone underneath his hand as Devin's nose snapped under his punch.

He didn't even have an opportunity to pull his hand back before the other men immediately readied their guns and pointed them at his head. "Give me that, you goddamn _idiot_!" Devin roared, finally losing his composure as he stole the rifle out of one the mercenaries' hands and stormed over to Michael, who was watching him more out of amusement than anything. It was obvious that the guy had never held a gun in his life; his form was wrong and fucking awful. But, of course, why would the poor little rich boy need to when he could just pay people to do it for him?

His amusement was cut short by Devin pressing the barrel of the gun directly to the center of his forehead. "You won't kill me," Michael said, eerily calm. "Not yet."

"You think I can't do it?" Devin seethed, blood streaming down his face from his no doubt broken nose. His finger edged a little closer to the trigger. "I should've done this the second I saw you…"

"I _know_ you won't," Michael said confidently. "You'll keep me here for a few days, torturin' me in whatever way you can think of, before you leave to go rip somebody else off, and then you'll have one of these fuckin' guys do it," he said, jerking his chin towards the Merryweather agents.

Devin stared at him long and hard for a moment before his gaze faltered and he lowered the gun. "You're right. I'm not gonna kill you," he said with a devilish grin before raising the gun and bringing the stock of it hard down onto Michael's untied hand, instantly snapping the fingers underneath it and making him scream in pain.

Michael looked down at his hand, trying to bite back a pathetic whine, but a strangled groan still escaped his throat once he saw his fingers. Three of them were bent at unnatural angles, each facing a different way from the rest of his hand. "Fuck…" he whimpered through clenched teeth.

With a satisfied laugh, Devin tossed the gun on the ground and started walking away. "I'm not gonna kill you yet, anyway."

* * *

" _Fuck!_ " Amanda yelled, pacing through the living room anxiously like she'd been doing for the past two hours. Her and the kids were, thankfully, together, but none of them had any damn _clue_ on what to do next. Michael was always the one to handle this stuff, not her, and, needless to say, they tried to avoid mixing business with marriage.

Frustrated, she crossed over to the coffee table and picked up her husband's lighter and pack of cigarettes, putting one of the Redwoods in between her lips. She brought the small flame up to the cigarette, but her hands were too shaky to even hold the lighter, let alone light the stupid thing.

Tracey glared at the cigarette disapprovingly, knowing full well that Amanda had quit smoking almost ten years ago, but still took the lighter from her hand and lit it up, anyway. "Mom, calm down…" she said nervously.

" _Calm down?!"_ Amanda echoed in disbelief after taking a drag from the cigarette. "Your father's out there, somewhere, hurt and maybe even dead by now and we don't have _any_ idea on what to do! So forgive me if I can't get my fucking shit together!" she said angrily before sitting on the couch and putting her face in her hands, defeated.

All of the anger seemed to drain out of her, revealing the panic and fear beneath. "I...I don't know…" she muttered. "Maybe we're fucked. I'm not like him...I can't just grab a gun and go on some insane rescue mission or killing spree. I'm _useless_ , kids…"

"Hey, you're _not_ useless, Mom," Jimmy said, sitting on the couch next to her. "We still have time, right? We can just-"

"Do what? Sit around hoping that he'll miraculously show up? Wait until he's killed?" Amanda asked bitterly, putting out the cigarette and leaning against the couch with a frustrated sigh.

"I-I don't know," Jimmy stuttered. "We could always call Uncle T-"

" _No,"_ Amanda immediately said. "Your father made it _very_ clear to me that they weren't on good terms. Hell, Trevor would probably finish the job himself if he could."

"What about Franklin?" Tracey finally joined in. "You know Dad loves that guy."

Amanda thought about that for a second, thought about the conversation with her husband about him only ten hours ago, which seemed like a thousand now. _He's a good kid, Amanda_ , he'd told her with genuine sincerity. "Yeah…" she said thoughtfully, getting up and dialing her husband's protege and putting him on speaker phone. "Yeah, that could work…"

Franklin answered on the third ring. "Mrs. De Santa, if this is about Michael and Trevor, it's between them-" he started tiredly before she cut him off.

"Franklin, oh thank God you answered," she said shakily. "Listen, I _really_ need your help. It's about Michael."

"What about him? Him and Trevor finally kill each other?" Franklin asked bitterly. She quickly got the feeling that he was tired of constantly being the mediator in their fights. _I know just how you feel…_

She sighed. "No, it's not that. He's...um, _fuck_ , he didn't show up for the movie premiere and none of us have seen him for hours. Then this rich asshole showed up and basically told me that...that he kidnapped him…" she said, voice breaking. Actually saying it out loud made the reality of the situation that much harsher and before she knew it, tears of mascara were running down her face. "I _need_ your help, Franklin…"

" _Shit_ ," Franklin said under his breath. "Did this 'rich asshole' say his name at all? I think I got an idea already…"

" _Devin Weston, billionaire investor_ ," Amanda said, her mocking, bitter voice deep in imitation of the man.

"Fuck, man, I shoulda known his ass was shady," Franklin growled. "Here, let me get Trevor on the line, he might help…"

Amanda didn't even have time to protest before none other than Trevor Philips was on the phone. "Franklin! What's up, homie?!" Trevor greeted oddly happily (or drunkenly), apparently unaware that she was on the line, too.

"T, dog, I need your help," Franklin started.

"Ooh, what is it?" Trevor asked a little too eagerly. "We shooting shit up? Spraying some motherfuckers? Doing another drug run?"

"No, dude, what the fuck?" Franklin asked, no doubt a little embarrassed knowing that Amanda and the kids were listening. "It's about Devin and Michael-"

"Oh, fuck them!" Trevor roared at the sound of her husband's name. "Those two deserve each other! I just hope they don't kill each other before _I_ get a chance to do it!"

"Hello to you, too, Trevor," Amanda finally joined in on the conversation, voice tight with annoyance.

"Why, _hello_ there, Amanda. Long time no see," Trevor drawled out. _Creepy as always_ , she thought. "Sorry about that, Mandy, but your husband's a treacherous snake."

"Yeah, tell me something I _don't_ know, you ass," she said, hostility dripping from her voice. The kids shifted uncomfortably next to her. They'd always loved Trevor back in North Yankton, but sometimes the arguments between him and their parents were too much to bear.

Franklin (mercifully) stopped them before it devolved into their age-old screaming matches. "Hey, this ain't the time for this, you two," he said, eerily reminding her of Michael back when he interrupted her and Trevor's disagreements. "Devin pinched Michael's ass, man, and I need your help to track him down."

"Jesus Christ, _again_?" Trevor asked, annoyed.

 _Again?_ Amanda wondered in confusion. Maybe she needed to talk to Michael once they found him. Once she slapped him for scaring the shit out of her, of course...

When she finally tuned back into the conversation, Trevor was still ranting. "...that damn damsel in distress needs to figure out how to save his own ass! If I help him, which I'm _not_ , he's never gonna learn!"

"He isn't gonna be able to learn if he's dead!" Franklin reminded him. "C'mon, bro, this is your best fucking friend-"

" _Was_ ," Trevor bitterly interrupted the younger man. "He was. Sorry, kid, but you're on your own for this…"

"Come on, Uncle T!" Jimmy whined, joining in on the adults' conversation. Amanda looked at him in shock, earning a shrug from her son. _It can't hurt_ , it seemed to say. "Can you just do this for _us_?"

Tracey quickly got the hint and leaned in closer to the phone. " _Please_ , Uncle Trevor. We _really_ need your help," she drawled out in a high-pitched voice like she was the little kid that Trevor had been so fond of back in North Yankton. In a way, she still kind of was.

Trevor let out a long, frustrated sigh on the other end of the phone (along with an angry, muttering string of curses). " _Fuck it!"_ he ended it with. "You're lucky I don't want you kids to be without a father, no matter how much of a pathetic asshole he is…"

"Thank you, Trevor, I guess..." Amanda said, no matter how repulsed saying that made her feel.

"Yeah, whatever," Trevor said dismissively. "Now what?"

"Now we need someone whose ass is smarter than ours on the line," Franklin said with a laugh. "And I think I know just who to call…"

* * *

"Nice place you got here," Michael said, looking around the warehouse.

The blood below him had only grown since he'd woken up, and the rope his hands had been tied with had been replaced with real, police-issued handcuffs, but he still smirked at the two mercenaries keeping watch on him. The single, cliché bulb above him was still there, casting the place in a dim yellow light. Guns, knives, and other torture devices laid sprawled out on the tables, making him feel a little uneasy. He half expected some Italian gangster to walk in to fit him with some concrete shoes judging by the look of the place.

The Merryweather agents glared at his comment, furthering Michael's need to irritate them. "No, seriously," he continued, ignoring the way the cold metal of the handcuffs bit into his already raw and bloodied wrists. "Did you buy this off an '80s movie set? I love the whole 'mafia torture chamber' feel. Adds a real touch of authenticity."

"Shut the fuck up," one of the mercenaries snapped, annoyed. "Your little wisecracks are really starting to get on my nerves."

"It's a _perfectly_ good question," Michael said, voice dripping with over the top innocence. "Reminds me of Rum Runner. Great movie, by the way. Have you seen it?"

"No, I have not," the other man snapped before turning to his little friend. "Do you remember what Weston said about this asshole?"

"Well…" the guy said, a Cheshire cat grin spreading across his face as he walked over to the table and grabbed a long, serrated knife from the table. "He said that as long as we don't kill him, he doesn't give a shit what happens to him."

"Perfect," the first one said. "I hold him down and you do your magic. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Hey, come on! It doesn't have to be this way…" Michael said shakily, starting to panic as they got closer him. The handcuffs rattled against the arms of the chair as he struggled, but it was no use. The fist met his stomach first, doubling him over and making him wheeze in pain, before it met his left eye to make sure he didn't struggle any further.

One of the mercenaries grabbed him by the hair and pulled him down so that his back was exposed while the other brought the knife down, slashing through his clothes and skin as if it was as easy as cutting through butter. Michael counted at least four slashes before the pain became too much to bear and clouded every last sense he had. By the time that they were finally finished, his torn shirt was stuck to him with his own blood.

A small groan of pain was his only protest when the one with the bloody knife stepped in front of him and ran the blade along his cheek, a small cut appearing on his skin. The mercenary had just raised the knife again when the doors of the warehouse swung open and the asshole that was responsible for all of this walked in.

"Looks like you had some fun without me!" Devin said, gleefully taking in Michael glaring at him through the one eye of his that wasn't almost swollen shut. A small pang of happiness managed to come through his overwhelming pain when he saw the redness of Devin's broken nose, courtesy of Michael's little outburst, and the bandage around it.

"Oh, don't worry, we didn't have too much fun," the Merryweather goon said, tossing the knife aside with a grin. "He's all yours now, sir."

"Good, that's good," Devin said, trailing off as he walked over to what Michael had nicknamed 'the torture table' and grabbed a baseball bat. "Now, I'm more of a golf guy myself, but for you, Slick, I'll make an exception."

 _Oh, how kind of you_ , Michael thought bitterly, silently anticipating the hit that was coming. No amount of bracing himself for it could have helped, though. The bat met his side, his ribs crunching under the sheer amount of force, nearly knocking him out from the pain on the spot.

"Home run!" Devin called out with a laugh, rearing back and swinging the bat again.

 _Crunch._

 _Crunch._

 _Crunch._

By the time that he was done, Michael was teetering in and out of consciousness. Stars of pain danced behind his eyelids, threatening to drown out what vision he had left. Every inch of his body felt like it was on fire, from his bruised face to his slashed back to his shattered ribs, but before he could mercifully succumb to the darkness, he could hear Devin say, "Wake his ass up."

A hand tugged roughly at his hair, reopening the gash on the side of his forehead and sending blood running down the side of his face. Soon enough, his hair was slick with it and the beads of blood trailing down his face and neck became too annoying to ignore. He opened his eyes to the sight of Devin, who was still holding that damn bat in his hand.

"Just do it already," Michael weakly said, defeated. "Just fuckin' do it. Shoot me."

Devin glared at him suspiciously. "You're betting I won't-"

"I don't care! Just get it _over with!_ " Michael yelled hoarsely, looking at his captors almost pleadingly.

"Not yet, Michael," Devin said teasingly, setting the bat down and swapping it out for a copy of the day's newspaper. "You see, here's the thing about you: you expect everything to be easy. Your job, your little family issues, and even the way you _die_. I'm not gonna give that little privilege to you."

"Says the rich guy who's probably never had to work a day in his life," Michael scoffed. "Fuckin' hypocrite…"

"I wouldn't be lecturing anyone on hypocrisy if I were you, Michael," Devin warned him as if he were treading on thin ice. He handed off the newspaper to one of the mercenaries, who walked over to him and held the copy up next to Michael. Devin brought out his phone (the newest and most expensive iFruit, of course) and held up the camera. "Say cheese…"

* * *

Trevor was the first one to show up. Amanda had instantly known it was him judging by the sound of his tires peeling into the driveway and the creakiness that his truck made whenever it so much as moved. She sighed in between in her cigarette (her third of the night) and mentally braced herself for what was to come.

 _Just my luck_ , she thought tiredly as she got up to open the door, revealing the _always_ lovely sight Trevor Philips (and yes, she did mean that with maximum sarcasm). "Trevor. Always a pleasure," Amanda said completely deadpan as she gestured for him to come in.

"Ah, Amanda Townley. Totally not passive aggressive at all," Trevor greeted, eyes roaming up and down the dress she still had on. She was too tired and too upset to say that it was De Santa now or to keep his eyes on her face if he knew what was good for him. "You know smoking is bad for you, right?"

She rolled her eyes dismissively. "Sorry if my husband being kidnapped gets me a little stressed out," she said, taking another drag for good measure.

Without another word, she led him into the living room, where Tracey and Jimmy sat anxiously. They looked about as exhausted as she did at this point, and she felt a little pang of guilt that she hadn't comforted them as much as she should've.

"Hey there, kids," Trevor said to them gently and softly, a rare sight for him. "I'm...ah...I'm sorry about your dad. But I'm telling you right now that we're gonna get him out of there and we're gonna make those bastards pay, okay?"

"Okay…" Tracey said shakily, tears forming at the edges of her eyes. "Thanks, Trevor…"

"Yeah, I... we're really glad you're here, Uncle T," Jimmy said, smiling hesitantly. Unlike his sister, he didn't show that he was breaking down, but the signs were still here.

Amanda leaned against the doorway, smiling sadly as she watched the kids and her husband's best friend. Trevor may have been a _lot_ of things (psychotic, creepy, and terrifying for starters), but he'd always loved the kids as if he really was their uncle.

She was jarred out of her fond thoughts by the sound of the doorbell ringing. After a cursory glance out the window (she couldn't be too sure about anything after earlier), she opened the door to Franklin and a frail-looking Lester, who clutched the younger man's arm as if it were a lifeline.

"Hey, Mrs. De Santa," Franklin said, polite and soft-spoken as always, which she'd always found strange for a former gang member. "Sorry I'm a little late. I had to go pick up this guy's ass."

"Yes, unfortunately I don't have a teleportation device for whenever you idiots get into trouble," Lester said sarcastically, obviously wanting to be anywhere other than her house at midnight. He hobbled past them and into the living room, muttering his annoyance under his breath. Franklin followed him, shooting a pitying look that seemed to say _"Sorry"_ towards her.

She had to bite back a frustrated sigh. _This is gonna be a long night_ , she thought as she joined the others. _As if it hasn't been already…_

"So," Trevor started once they were all together. "Our _dear_ Michael has been kidnapped by resident douchebag Devin Weston, but _why_?"

"Well, Weston _does_ own a large piece of Richards Majestic and is the reason that Michael even works there in the first place. A little birdie told me that that _asshole_ wanted to scrap Meltdown and tear down the studio to make a bunch of condos. Michael, well…" Lester started with a small laugh. "He didn't like that and stopped him. They've been fighting ever since and I bet things came to a head tonight with the premiere and all..."

"Great," Amanda said under her breath. _That noble fucking idiot._ "That's that. Now, where the hell are they?"

" _That_ is something I need time to figure out, but..." Lester said, pulling out the laptop he'd been carrying with him. "I'll check both of their phone signals and see where it goes from there. It shouldn't take very long, but knowing that asshole he might have already gotten rid of their phones…"

As he started typing away, a look of extreme concentration on his face, the rest of them sat there anxiously. Tracey still had silent tears running down her face, and Jimmy sat stoically next to her, his distant eyes betraying his sadness and worry. Franklin looked at them sadly, as if he could have prevented anything that had happened, even though none of them could've seen this coming. Even Trevor sat there, looking regretful and the most worried Amanda had ever seen him.

Amanda, unable to bear the silence between those looks and her own overactive mantra in her mind ( _What if he's hurt? What if he's dead?),_ got up and walked into the kitchen. She glanced longingly over at the alcohol, wishing she could have something to take the edge off, but opted to make some coffee instead. If it was gonna be a long night, she needed to at least be somewhat awake for it.

As she stood there impatiently, waiting for the coffee to finishing brewing, her phone buzzed next to her on the counter. Feeling something between hopefulness that it was Michael and dread that it was something that would make her already shitty night worse, she picked it up.

She raised the phone, only to be greeted with a text from an unknown number. _It's probably just spam or something_ , she tried to reassure herself as she opened the text.

It wasn't. Inside was the most horrifying picture she'd ever seen: Michael, battered and barely conscious, tied up to a chair, his face bruised and beaten with fresh blood streaming down his forehead and his shirt soaked with his own blood.

The image was accompanied by a single text message:

" _He's running out of time…"_


	3. Chapter 3: Treading Water

_Hello and welcome back to another chapter! Sorry for the delay, the holidays were crazy! This chapter serves as the climax of the story as a rescue mission is (finally) underway, but there's still a couple chapters left coming out soon. As always, enjoy!_

* * *

"Rise and shine!" were the only three words that he heard before a bucket of icy water was dumped over his head, soaking him from miserable head to toe.

Michael immediately shot awake, spluttering and cursing, and blindly thrashed around for a moment before coming back to his senses. He sat there stock still, water that was pink with his blood running down his body and wet strands of hair falling forwards into his face, and shivered from the rivulets. Through his good eye, he could see Devin standing there with a smirk on his face and an empty bucket held loosely in his hand.

He sighed briefly. _Another day in hell._ It had been...what now? A day? Or was it two? He'd lost track; the days kinda melded into one another when one was in a constant state of either being beaten or being unconscious. Either way, it was a new day judging by the sunlight streaming in through the singular window of the warehouse.

 _Isn't someone missing me?_ he wondered sadly. Amanda, the kids...they had to know something was wrong, didn't they? Were they looking for him? Did they give up? Did Devin get them, too? The possibilities that ran through his mind were endless and none of them were happy. Franklin was probably tired of saving his ass so many times by this point, and Trevor would probably come to finish the job himself if he could, the dick.

Too lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice Devin getting another bucket of water until he was standing back in front of him and getting ready for another round. "I'm awake," Michael muttered with more energy and urgency than he'd had in days. "Sadly…"

"Oh, good," Devin said happily, setting the bucket back down. "Was getting worried you'd finally died on us."

"Ah, you're not that lucky," Michael said, spitting out the bloody water that had ran into his mouth. He wearily glanced around the warehouse, noting the amount of Merryweather agents that were around, a stark contrast to the one or two of the last couple days.

"Just in case those friends of yours show up," Devin explained. "I don't know _why_ they would, though; that kid really seems annoyed with you and that psycho Trevor."

"Yeah, tell me somethin' I don't know," Michael said under his breath.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, but even that slightest movement sent pain coursing through every fiber of his being and elicited a pathetic whimper from his mouth. He curled his uninjured fingers into his palm (his broken ones just twitched uselessly) and tried to distract himself from the agony, but he couldn't. His shirt clung to his gaunt frame, stuck there from the blood and water.

He wouldn't make it much longer, he knew that. The stab wounds on his back had _finally_ just stopped bleeding along with the gash on his head, and his sides made him feel like screaming whenever he so much as breathed. If they didn't shoot him first, he was bound to bleed out.

Devin laughed at his weak struggles. "You're losing your strength, Slick," he said before turning to one of the mercenaries and whispering something in his ear. The lackey nodded before heading off to do whatever bullshit errand he'd been assigned to.

"And you're still an annoying ass, Devin," Michael spat out. "But I guess some things don't change, huh?"

The other man shrugged. "I guess. Just like you leaving this place in a body bag won't," Devin said. "And I'm beginning to think today's that day…"

That shut him up. It wasn't as if he didn't know his time was running out-he was _acutely_ aware of that-but he couldn't stop thinking about it. Sure, it wasn't his first time being tortured to death in a warehouse, but it was his first time that he actually had anything to give a shit about while being tortured in said warehouse.

Last time, he didn't care. He thought he deserved all the bruises, all the cuts and scars. He thought he deserved to die because no one would miss him, anyway. This time, at the hands of Devin, no less? He had more regrets than he could count. His family...he'd never see them again. Would never get to hold or kiss Amanda again. Wouldn't get to argue with Tracey about her stupid antics or get to play that dumb video game with Jimmy again. Hell, he wouldn't even get to apologize to _Trevor_ …

"Fuck…" he growled, voice catching in his throat, and thrashed halfheartedly against the handcuffs. They rattled against the armchairs uselessly, only echoing the futility of his situation.

Devin smiled cruelly at him, about to say some smug comment before the mercenary reappeared, dragging something behind him. "Ah, perfect," he said, clapping his hands together in sheer joy. "Hope you can hold your breath for a while."

Before Michael could ask or wonder what that meant, the mercenary stepped in front of him, revealing the barrel filled to the brim with water. He quickly put two and two together and began to panic, slamming himself against the handcuffs fearfully.

"Wait a second-" he shakily started, but his head was thrust under the water before he could finish.

The coldness, that was the first thing he felt. It seeped into his very pores and eerily reminded him of North Yankton's frozen rivers that he'd had the misfortune of falling into once during a job. He instinctively tried to gasp for air, but was quickly rewarded with a mouthful of water. Agonizing moments that felt like hours passed, and soon enough, fear overpowered any other sense. His lungs felt like they were being crushed as if they knew they needed air now more than ever.

Just when his already-shitty vision had started to go black, he was jerked up out of the water like a fish being reeled in. He immediately started coughing out the water, watching the pink-tinted liquid splash to the floor. Michael rested his head against the rim of the barrel, gasping, and tried to regain what composure he had left. "A little cold for my taste…" he managed to wisecrack.

"Oh, you'll get used to it," Devin said dismissively. He glanced between Michael and the mercenary before laughing a little. "Do it again."

This time, Michael held his breath.

* * *

She poured herself another drink. It was her third or fourth at this point; she'd lost track. She'd already burned through her wine, so she'd moved onto Michael's whiskey in an attempt to feel _anything_. Anything but the paralyzing worry and fear of the last two days or the emptiness that awaited her in bed or the ghost of her husband in her head.

Amanda took a long pull on the whiskey. She had always hated the drink, but it reminded her of Michael. _Where are you?_ she asked herself as she twisted her wedding ring around her finger. It was a part of the constant mantra in her head ever since that night. Ever since she'd seen that damn picture that she saw every time she shut her eyes of her tortured and helpless husband.

Another drink. At this point, she'd probably wind up sick or with a nasty hangover. She had just been starting to shakily pour the rest of the amber liquid into the glass when her daughter walked in, scoffing disapprovingly.

"Seriously? _Now?"_ Tracey asked, shaking her head in disappointment. "Shouldn't you...I don't know, be out helping look for Dad and _not_ getting shitfaced?"

"And shouldn't _you_ be keeping your mouth shut?" Amanda snapped, cursing to herself when she noticed the slur of her voice. Her shoulders slumped at that. "Sorry, Trace...I just...can't. I don't know anything about where he'd be or how to help. This is how I try to fucking cope with all this craziness, okay? By getting shitfaced drunk and trying to forget that he might be dead or dying or tortured…" Her voice cracked on the second part of the sentence and she felt the familiar tears sting at the corners of her eyes.

"Fuck, Mom...I'm sorry," Tracey whispered, sitting down next to her. She reached over and gripped her hand reassuringly. "We'll find him. Dad's tough, he'll be okay. He'll be okay…" she repeated, as if she was trying to convince herself more than Amanda.

Amanda barely had time to reflect on the nice moment with her daughter before her phone started vibrating next to her. She lifted it almost hesitantly, as if expecting to see another picture of Michael in even worse condition, but saw that Trevor was calling her instead. Sighing in dread, she answered it.

"Heyy, Trevor…" she mumbled, words starting to melt into one another.

"The hell?" Trevor said gruffly in way of greeting. "Are you drunk?"

"No…" she said innocently, clutching the whiskey bottle in a death grip. "I am _getting_ drunk!"

She could almost see him roll his eyes on the other end of the line. "Uh, now might not be the best time for your not-so-secret alcoholism, Mandy," Trevor said sarcastically, earning an eye roll from her. "If you were here instead of getting drunk like your fat snake of a husband would, you'd know that we finally have a fucking lead-"

Trevor's insult was quickly cut off by struggling on the other end of the phone followed by a couple curses before she heard Franklin's voice. "Uh, sorry about him, Mrs. De Santa," the young man said almost sheepishly. "But Lester thinks he found Michael's ass, so y'all better get over here."

For the first time in two days, a small feeling of hope rose in her. "Shit...okay!" she said, trying not to get too excited. There had been plenty of dead ends so far and this lead might not have been any different. "Just text me the address of wherever you guys are at."

"Alright. We'll see y'all soon," Franklin said before hanging up. About a minute later, her phone buzzed again with the text.

"Well?" Tracey anxiously asked her the second she put the phone down. "What's up?"

Amanda set the bottle down, smiling faintly. "They think they found your father," she said, ignoring her own advice to herself as she broke out in a grin. "So we better get going, that idiot isn't gonna save himself…"

Tracey practically jumped out of her chair in excitement. Her eyes, reminding Amanda so much of Michael's, lit up with determination and happiness. "Fuck, yeah! Let's go!" she said, immediately jumping out of the chair.

"Okay…" Amanda said, reaching over for her car keys, but her daughter stole them before she could grab them. "What the fuck?" she asked, irritated.

"I'm _not_ adding drunk driving to the list of crimes our family's done," Tracey said, smirking and tauntingly holding the car keys. "Now, go get my _dear_ brother and we can go."

"Alright, shit...when did you become so demanding?" Amanda said under her breath as she got up to go upstairs.

"Since Dad got kidnapped by a psycho billionaire and you started drinking even more," Tracey shot back almost instantly, one eyebrow raised as if begging for more challenges.

"Fair enough," Amanda said. _Ugh, maybe she's too much like Michael and I,_ she thought with a soft laugh.

Without another word, she went upstairs to retrieve her son, who she'd barely talked to in all of the chaos. He'd kept himself locked in his room, shut off from the harsh reality of the outside world, and had barely said a word to her or Tracey. No matter how distant he was with his father, what happened had shaken him to his very core and it affected him more than he liked to admit.

She knocked first. "Jimmy, honey?" she asked gently. "Can I come in?"

It took him a long moment before he responded. "Yeah, sure, Mom…" he said, voice muffled through the door.

The sight that met her when she opened the door almost broke her heart. His room somehow managed to be even messier than usual, as if a tornado of takeout boxes and junk food had torn through it, and he sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

She quickly walked over to him and sat next to him. "Hey…" she said softly. "How are you holding up?"

"How do you think?" Jimmy asked bitterly, still not looking up at her. "I was such a dick to him, Mom, all the time...and now he might be dead…"

"We all were dicks to him," she admitted. "But he loves you and he _knows_ you love him. We're going to get him back and you're going to get to make it up to him, okay?"

"Okay…" he said shakily. "Thanks, Mom…"

"Anytime. Now, come on," she said, gesturing for him to get up. "Trevor and Franklin think they've found him so we better get going."

"Really?" he asked, gazing up at her with wide, hopeful eyes.

"Yeah, really," she said, holding the door open for him. "Your sister's waiting for us in the car."

Finally, a couple minutes later, all three of them were in her car with Tracey behind the wheel, much to Amanda's dismay.

"Just don't crash my car, please," Amanda said, resting her head against the window as they pulled out of the driveway. "I get nervous enough when your father drives it."

"Relax," Tracey said, a mischievous look in her eyes. "I'm an _awesome_ driver."

"Yeah, one that failed the driving test two times," Jimmy laughed from the backseat.

"Uh, at least I _got_ a car," Tracey shot back smugly, earning a frustrated sigh from her brother.

Amanda cut in before they devolved into their usual screaming arguments. "As nice as it is to hear you two arguing again, I think you should stop before we wind up crashing or something," she said, sternly enough to make them both shut up. "Good," she muttered, closing her eyes briefly and trying to chase away the alcohol-induced headache that was forming.

"So, where are Franklin and Uncle Trevor even at?" Tracey asked, interrupting her mother's daze.

"They mentioned to me yesterday they were at some warehouse-turned-safehouse. I'll pull up the GPS. Told me something about your father needing to lay low for a while after they get him," Amanda said with a shrug. "They have a doctor there for him too, just in case…"

"Yeah, just in case…" Tracey echoed nervously, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter and glancing over to the GPS on Amanda's phone. "South Los Santos, huh? A little on the sketchy side…"

"We'll be fine," Amanda said. "If anything goes wrong, we have Franklin and that maniac Trevor to help us and...oh, great, now _I'm_ nervous."

"Hey, if anyone kidnaps you, Trace, they're bound to return you, anyway," Jimmy laughed, making Tracey roll her eyes.

"Like they wouldn't return you either," Tracey scoffed. "And quit being an ass, we're almost there."

"Thank God for that," Amanda mumbled, going back to shutting her eyes. Ugh, what the hell had she been thinking with the day drinking? She wasn't so much drunk as she was still hungover from the previous night (combined with her lack of sleep), and was certainly paying the price for it.

She kept her eyes shut, silently suffering her consequences, and didn't open them until Tracey shook her shoulder and said, "We're here."

Amanda opened her eyes hesitantly, sighing. "Fantastic," she drawled out sarcastically. She got out, took a deep breath, and hesitantly stepped inside the warehouse.

The place was nice enough, she noticed. It was clean and somewhat tidy, which already made it far better than some of the places they'd used back in the day. The hospital bed and the sheer amount of medical supplies (no doubt stolen from some oblivious nurse) and the doctor organizing them did make her heart thump a little faster. _He'll be fine, he won't need all of this,_ she stubbornly told herself.

Trevor was the first one to turn around and see them. "Ah, Amanda! So glad you decided to finally show up." he said, but his face brightened when he saw the kids. "Hey there, kids. Today's the day! We're gonna go kill those bastards and get your _dear_ old Dad back!"

"Uh, thanks, Uncle T…" Tracey said nervously, taken aback by his blood lust.

Amanda walked over to Lester's computer, where the three men were huddled around, gazing at a map of the city and that picture of Michael that still made her feel sick. While everyone else had freaked out when she'd been sent it, Lester had been the one to analyze every pixel for any clues to his location. _Looks like it paid off._

"So, how'd you end up finding him?" she asked, still trying to not look at the photo. She looked over at the map, with one location in the eastern part of the city circled. It wasn't too far, thankfully.

Franklin groaned next to her. "Oh, _please_ don't get him started on his 'boundless intelligence' or however the fuck he puts it," he said desperately.

Lester grinned maniacally. "Too late. You see, while you were getting drunk and these two were nagging at me, I was going through Devin Weston's financial records. Needless to say, with him being a rich, privileged _asshole_ , it took a while. But I did find end up finding something: a warehouse in East Los Santos he bought a year ago, which is what the logo in the background of the picture matches up with," he said, pointing it out in the picture. "I get the feeling that's where he takes anyone he ends up not liking or not needing. And guess who else has been spotted there?"

"Merryweather," everyone else said in unison.

"Bingo. Now that you guys are here, Trevor and Franklin, you get going. Amanda, take this," Lester said, handing off a Bluetooth headset to her. "It's one of Michael's. He'll be a lot calmer if he hears you and knows you're okay when they pick him up."

"Okay…" she said, putting the earpiece on. She watched as Franklin and Trevor readied their guns, that same look in their eyes that Michael always got before a job. "Just...bring him back in one piece, okay? And thanks. To both of you."

"Oh, we will. Don't you worry that pretty little head, Mandy," Trevor said without a care in the world.

"We'll bring him back, Mrs. De Santa," Franklin said, smiling at her confidently before turning to Trevor and patting him on the shoulder. "Let's go, T."

They left, beginning the most nerve wracking experience of her life. Amanda sat down next to the kids and looked almost helplessly to Lester. "Now what?" she asked.

He sighed. "Now we wait."

* * *

Light. Air. _Finally._ Michael had never appreciated the two things more in his life than he had today, in between periods of being held underwater and barely allowed to catch his breath before going back under. He was practically collapsed against the barrel, coughing up water and wheezing, and was on the verge of begging for them to just get it over with.

The past couple days, he'd been tortured in so many ways. Stabbed, punched, hit by a baseball bat, hell, they'd even toyed with _electrocution_ via car battery yesterday. Drowning seemed to be the flavor of the day. So far, it was by far the worst. First, the coldness started at him when his head was thrust under for the first few seconds. Then, the fear came, the knowledge that he was about to die.

And then, the memories that flashed before his eyes and tortured him about all of his mistakes. Some of them weren't so bad, like kissing Amanda at every opportunity on their wedding night or the nights when the kids were born. Or celebrating with Trevor after a perfect job when they were both young and dumb or the summers he spent as a kid sneaking his father's whiskey and watching old Western and noir movies, wishing he could be half as cool as the main characters.

Others, though, tortured him. He saw the black eyes his father gave him after lost football games, saw him looming above him with a belt in one hand and a bottle in the other. Saw the broken look on Amanda's face the night he'd cheated on her, saw his kids slowly start to lose their respect for him as neglectful years wore on.

Every time he saw the latter, he screamed under the water, not because he was in pain (though that was _definitely_ part of it), but because of how fucking _stupid_ he'd been in those years. He'd almost welcomed the blackened vision that slowly crept in because it saved him from reliving those fateful nights. But then, he was pulled above water, barely breathing but alive, and was brought back to harsh reality. And then the cycle would repeat all over again.

Michael barely had the energy to glance up at Devin, who was glancing at his watch and looking almost bored. "What? Lose your taste for this sorta thing?" he spat out, words dripping with hate.

"Oh, believe me, I haven't," Devin said. "It's just kinda _boring_ at this point. Kind of pathetic, too, because it's pretty obvious that kid and that psycho aren't coming."

"So...what? You're finally gonna kill me?" Michael asked, finally managing to sit upright and glare at him.

Devin thought about that for a moment, a contemplative look crossing his face, before he nodded. "Actually, yeah, that sounds good. I _do_ have a dinner party to get ready for tonight, so…" He turned around to face the mercenaries. "Get this taken care of. I don't care how you do it as long as you get rid of the body and clean the place up. And as for you, Slick? It's been a pleasure, but I _always_ win. Remember that before these guys take care of you. Buh-bye!"

Michael watched in disbelief as Devin casually grabbed his car keys from the table and left without another word, followed by a couple of Merryweather agents. He didn't even bother insulting his captor or screaming at him as the double doors slammed shut with a big _thud._

The second they were gone, the remaining mercenaries turned around and looked at him as if he were a feast. Hungrily, predatory, and just waiting to strike.

He began to listen to them argue on how to kill him. Shooting him was too fast. Beating him, too slow. Burning, too messy. Strangling, not messy enough. He almost wanted to jump in on the discussion to just get it over with faster.

Finally, one of them glanced over to the barrel of water and suggested the _bright_ idea of drowning him. By some miracle (or disaster, depending on how he looked at it), they all agreed and, before he knew it, one of them grabbed him by the hair and forced him underwater. This time, though, he knew he wouldn't be coming back up.

The familiar steps started. Cold. It was _so_ cold. And so dark, save for the shattered light that reached through the murkiness. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even tell which way was up or down.

His lungs felt like they were being crushed and ran over repeatedly by a semi, and his heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest. His entire body felt numb, his limbs heavy and useless against the restraints. _This is it_ , he thought, hearing his own slowing heartbeat thump in his ears. A few more pulses and he'd be done and dead.

The vision at the edges of his eyes flashed, and the blackness slowly covered what vision he had left. And now, the final part of the cycle and the final part of his life: the memories. They felt a little more real this time. Hell, he could practically _hear_ the gunshots instead of just imagining them.

But this time, he ignored them and focused on the best part of his vision that his oxygen deprived brain tortured him with: his wife's face. Michael swore he could see her bright blue eyes, could feel her soft dark hair, could hear her voice. He could practically see her hand reaching out for him, about to touch his face-

The hand slackening its grip on his head interrupted his reverie. _The hell?_ he hazily wondered, but was too far gone to care anymore. If this was how he died, he felt a little more okay with it. Just as quickly as the hand let go, though, it was back, but pulled him up this time.

A bright light assaulted him as he was pulled up out of the water, more confused than ever. For a moment, he wondered if he'd made it into heaven by some mistake, but when the coughing and wheezing started, he knew that wasn't the case. And, judging by the gunshots that were still ringing out and the voices of his friends, he wasn't entirely imagining everything.

Trevor was the first one that he saw. Michael instinctively tensed up in between coughing fits, as if he was expecting Trevor to finish the job. "Mike! You okay?" Trevor said, almost concerned, much to Michael's shock. They hadn't exactly been on the best terms when he'd gotten kidnapped and he wondered why he showed up at all.

But instead of slitting his throat or something, his psychotic best friend stepped in front of him and expertly picked the locks to the handcuffs, freeing him from the chair he'd been trapped in for days.

"I'm _fine…_ " Michael insisted, but he practically fell out of the chair and onto his knees, violently coughing out the water that remained in him. He could only hope the blood in it was from his mouth and not his lungs. Looking up, he could see Franklin fighting off Merryweather, and smiled slightly. At least the kid hadn't given up (and Trevor, which he was still confused about). Finally, he managed to find the energy-or the adrenaline, he couldn't quite tell-to stand up and face Trevor.

"Give me a gun," Michael mumbled, spitting out the rest of the water in his mouth. He stood there, soaking wet, beaten, and shivering, but stood as straight as he could.

Trevor glanced up and down from Michael's face to his right hand, where three of his five fingers were very obviously broken. It made him wonder what the rest of him looked like. "You know, I would but your hand's kinda fucked up, Mikey-"

"Well, it's a good thing I have two," Michael said, grabbing the pistol out of Trevor's hand. He immediately started running towards Franklin and the rest of the mercenaries, and the blood red haze descended upon him as he shot at them. Even though he was a worse shot with his left hand, he still managed to take a couple down. "Yeah, not so fuckin' helpless now, am I?" he taunted them hoarsely.

"Good to see you, man!" Franklin called out from behind his cover. "We was worried about you!"

"We?" Michael asked. Quickly, he sat down behind some cover, wincing as he heard gunshots whiz by his ears. He pressed his hand against his side, trying to bite back a groan of pain from his injuries.

"Yeah... me, your family, shit, even Trevor and Lester in some weird way," Franklin said with a laugh.

"My family...how are they? Are they okay?" Michael said, leaning heavily against the wall. It took everything in him to not pass out from sheer exhaustion, pain, or blood loss at this point. _You're almost done,_ he told himself. _Just gotta make it outta here.._

"They're _fine_ ," Trevor said, finishing off a few mercenaries. "Your little lady is the one who dragged us into this mess, actually."

Michael managed a small laugh, but even the slightest chuckle made him wheeze in pain. "Heh, sounds like her…"

"Ooh, speaking of that," Trevor said before tossing him a headset. "Here. Just in case you get ambushed and kidnapped again."

He barely managed to catch it before it shattered on the floor. "Uh, thanks, T," Michael said, putting it on. Through the gunfire that he was still hiding away from like a goddamn coward, he could barely hear a single thing, but one voice stood out amongst the rest.

"Franklin? Trevor?! Did you get him?! Ugh, I wish _one_ of you would answer me..." Amanda muttered angrily over the headset, but he knew all too well that behind her frustration was all fear.

Michael smiled weakly at the sound of her voice. _I missed her,_ he thought fondly. He dragged himself further behind cover, making sure he was out of sight of what little mercenaries remained, and leaned against the wall. "Hey there, darlin'..." he whispered into the headset.

"Oh my God...you're alive!" she exclaimed. He heard her sniffle a little bit, and could almost see the tears of joy forming in her eyes. "I'm so glad you're okay!"

"I dunno if 'okay' is the right word, but I'm still alive," he laughed hoarsely. "I really missed you, 'Mand…"

"I missed you too, darling," she said softly. "We'll see you soon, okay?"

"Thank God for that," he said, standing back up with a few strained grunts of pain. "I'm gonna get the hell outta here. I love you…"

"I love you too-" Amanda started, but Trevor's' voice soon joined in and cut her off.

"Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds, but we _kinda_ need to get out of here before more show up, M," he said, though his tone implied he was anything but sorry.

"Yeah, yeah, I get the fuckin' point…" Michael muttered. He started limping towards the exit. Trevor and Franklin had already made it outside, but had at least cleared out the rest of Merryweather for him. "I'll be there in a sec-"

A knife being thrust hilt-deep into his side cut his sentence short. _What the fuck?_ He wondered hazily, looking down to see a hand twisting the knife deeper into his body. It felt disjointed, as if he was watching it happen to himself, but there wasn't any pain or anything he could do about it.

It wasn't until a few moments later that he looked up to see the Merryweather goon holding it, a smug grin on his face. "Think you could escape? I got you now, you dick…" he laughed. In one swift motion, he pulled out the knife, glimmering red with Michael's blood.

The second Michael laid eyes on the bloody knife was when the shock wore off. He collapsed onto the floor, his headset and only way of getting help falling off and shattering on the ground. His hands desperately clutched at his side, and when he looked back at them, they were soaked in sticky, warm blood.

"S-shit…" he whimpered. Hot, all-consuming pain ran through every vein of his body and he was powerless to do anything besides watch the blood gush from his side.

So _this_ was how it'd end. Not with him being shot or beaten or drowned, but by being stabbed only seconds away from freedom. He'd tried so hard, but he wouldn't make it. He looked up at the mercenary, who was leaning down to finish the job.

"Fuck...fuck y-you…" Michael said, voice rattling, and watched as the knife inched closer to his throat. He shut his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.

It never came. Instead, the double doors leading outside burst open, a single gunshot following it. He didn't open his eyes until he heard the knife clatter to the floor and footsteps ext to him. The mercenary lay dead, a single bullet hole between his eyes, and Trevor was standing above him. His eyes widened once he saw the damage, and that was how bad Michael knew it was.

"What the fuck happened?" Trevor barked out. He was practically vibrating with rage as he started to lift Michael up, struggling under his weight.

"Got...got ambushed," Michael mumbled, managing a weak, bitter laugh when he thought back to Trevor's earlier words to him. Trevor was still trying to get him up over his shoulder, making him scream in pain. "Just...just go. Jus' fuckin' go. I'm dyin', T..."

"I ain't leaving you, Mikey Not this time," Trevor said, hefting him over his shoulder as if he weighed no more than a feather.

Michael stared down at the ground, watching a trail of blood form behind them. "T...if I don't…" he coughed out.

"Shut up," Trevor said angrily.

Michael ignored him and kept on babbling, becoming more desperate with the more blood that escaped him. "Tell Amanda and the kids that I-"

"I said _shut up!_ You're not gonna die, and if you do, I swear I'll fucking kill you!" Trevor yelled, annoyed. "You're gonna be fine, you stubborn fucking bastard."

"I dunno…" Michael muttered. He pressed his hand against his side, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it was no use. The blood flowed right between his fingers, dripping onto the floor.

Finally, they made it outside to where Franklin was waiting in his car. "T, dude, what happened to him?" he immediately asked.

"Got stabbed by some Merryweather pussy on the way out," Trevor said, opening the back door and laying Michael down in the backseat. "Get us the hell out of here _now_."

 _Ding-ding-ding,_ the car beeped, signalling Trevor opening the passenger door and quickly jumping in. The engine soon roared to life as the younger man obliged, speeding off away from the warehouse. Franklin was a good driver, at least, but the speed only made Michael feel worse as he was tossed around like a ragdoll in the backseat. "Fuck…" he moaned in pain.

Franklin glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, a concerned look on his face. "Shit, sorry, man. You doing okay back there?"

"Fine," Michael said through gritted teeth. "Just fuckin' fine…" The seats were slick with his blood now and his eyes were starting to droop shut, but he knew complaining wouldn't help.

"We're almost there. Just hang on, man," Franklin said.

Michael nodded. He stared up at the roof of the Bravado Buffalo. Wondered if it'd be the last thing he'd ever see. Wondered if the last thing he'd ever hear was the rap music playing on Franklin's radio and the hushed whispers of his friends discussing the fact that he was fading fast.

Was he gonna give up and die here, on his back in his own blood, staring at leather upholstery? No fucking way. Biting back a scream of pain, he sat up and managed to lean against the window. He stared out at the cityscape, watching cars and buildings fly past him in a blur. He let out a long, rattling sigh. If that was the last thing he'd see, the city he loved despite all of the awfulness that happened in it, it wasn't so bad.

The car abruptly slammed to a stop, throwing him against the front seat and almost adding a broken nose to his list of injuries. "We're here," Trevor said, getting out and opening the back door. "Let's get you fixed up…"

Franklin and Trevor grabbed one of his arms each, slinging them over their shoulders and holding them up as they walked towards Lester's warehouse. Each step was agony, sending a new, horrible pain through him. The whole world was spinning, rocking up and down and side to side. It hurt to even breathe, but he kept hobbling on. The door to the warehouse swung open, revealing Amanda and the kids rushing outside to him.

It was about then that he passed out.


	4. Chapter 4: Matter of Time

_Hello and welcome back to another chapter :D One more to go!_

* * *

Faces poked through the haze, lingering there and fading in and out. Amanda, on his left, looking like his hopes, dreams and beauty and everything good he had in the world. Trevor, on his right, looking like his past, chaos, and everything that he used to have. His kids, they looked like the future and like the innocence he'd lost long ago. Fragments of sentences registered in his ringing ears (had the gunshot next to him really affected him that badly?), different voices melding together in his confused brain.

"...the fuck happened to him?!" he could pick out Amanda saying-or yelling, rather. "You said he was okay!"

Trevor's crazed little laugh floated through his fogginess. "Yeah, _before_ he got fucking stabbed!"

He was being carried still, he realized, by Franklin this time who lifted him as if he weighed no more than a feather. He briefly envied the strength of the youth, strength that he used to have before wasting away by a pool for ten years. Blood soaked the floor behind them, painting a trail of crimson red.

It flowed between his fingers, too, warm and sticky. The rest of him, though, was cold. So cold. And scared. He'd never thought he would be, but he was _terrified_. He didn't wanna bleed out in front of his family, didn't wanna die; he wanted to _live_ more than he had in years. It repeated in his head, a mantra that he couldn't get rid of: _I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die..._

He faded out.

* * *

A new face hovered above him. A stranger's face, covered in a surgical mask, but he had kind eyes. Trusting eyes. He must have been the doctor, Michael reckoned for obvious reasons. _Need a goddamn surgeon to fix this, though…_

The doctor must've cut off his bloody, ruined shirt, because now he could see his broken body in all of its pathetic glory. His sides were a horrible mixture of black, blue, and yellow, and he could almost see his ribs poking out through his skin. His broken fingers twitched at his side, obviously not a priority as compared to the gaping knife wound in him, which he could barely feel thanks to the IV in his arm pumping drugs through his veins.

Metal glinted off of the light off of the light above him. A needle and that fancy kind of surgical thread, no doubt for stitching up the mess that his side was. The doctor cleaned it first, put on some anesthetic to numb the pain, and then set about stitching it up.

Michael, high from the medicine and his own pain, watched him without a word. He did it so casually, as if being in some dark warehouse and saving some washed-up bank robber from bleeding to death was an everyday occurrence. Easily, he pulled the skin together, looped the thread through either side of the cut, and repeated.

He asked Michael questions. Did he know who he was? Did he hurt anywhere?

 _I know who I am and I hurt everywhere,_ Michael wanted to say, but he couldn't get the words out. Couldn't manage to open his mouth to form anything but whimpers of pain.

He faded out again, but couldn't help but wonder if he would wake up this time.

* * *

Amanda sat anxiously outside of the room where her husband was being operated on. It had been a couple hours since Michael had been brought back, bleeding, unconscious, and barely breathing, but her anxiety had not lowered once. Her tears had only just stopped, and she sat there biting her lip as to not start again. He could be dead or alive, none of them knew yet.

None of them-not her, not the kids, not Franklin, or even Trevor-had said a single word since then. They all sat there, the same stoic, worried expression on their faces, and tried to not think of the hypotheticals.

Finally, the doctor emerged, exhausted and covered in blood, and sighed tiredly. Trevor spoke up first because all of them were too scared to. "Well?!" he growled out impatiently.

The doctor took off his mask, revealing the slight smile beneath. "He'll live," he said, earning a collective sigh of relief. He gestured for Amanda to get up. "Mrs. De Santa? A word?"

She got up, legs shaky from a mixture of stress and overwhelming happiness, and followed him into the room where Michael was. He was on the bed, unconscious and pale, but alive. About a million IVs were in his arm, his face was swollen and bruised, his torso was covered in a thick layer of bandages, and his hand was in a cast, but that was okay. _He's alive_ , she reminded herself, almost giddy. _He's alive and he'll be okay._

"So…" she said, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. "How bad was it?"

"He's not out of the woods yet," the doctor said. "Along with the stab wound in his side and the amount of blood he's lost, he had multiple slashes across his back, two broken ribs plus with a fractured one, and three broken fingers. His face doesn't have much damage aside from the bruises, a minor concussion, and the gash on his head, which didn't require stitches. Luckily, I didn't find any water in his lungs-"

"Water in his lungs?" Amana echoed, confused. "Why would that happen?"

"He, um…" he trailed off, not able to meet her eyes. "They said they tried to drown him."

"Oh…" she said, feeling new tears form at the edges of her eyes. She glanced over to Michael again, could see the sadness in his face even while unconscious, and swallowed hard. "I see..."

"Look...the point is your husband is a _very_ lucky man, Mrs. De Santa," he stressed. "The biggest concern I have for these next couple days is a fever and infection, but after that, it's just a matter of time before he wakes up and by then it should be all recovery. It will take some time, but he'll be okay."

"Good…that's good," she said, nodding. "Thank you, for everything…"

"Ah, don't thank me. I'm just doing my job," the doctor said, smiling slightly, before starting for the door. "I'll give you some alone time."

The second that door shut was when she broke down crying in happiness. She gently took Michael's uninjured hand in hers and pressed a light kiss to his wedding ring. "You're okay...you're okay…" she repeated to herself. "Thank God…I love you so much…"

A few minutes later, her sobs had subsided and she managed to sit up, sighing. _Time to wait..._

* * *

Her days melded into a routine: wake up, go see Michael, go back home, try to sleep, and repeat. The kids had been there almost as much as she had, glued to Michael's bedside, and were about as relieved as she was. It was day four of him being unconscious now, and the three of them had barely left his side during the entire time.

Amanda looked over at her husband, smiling slightly. He was a lot thinner than he used to be and the stubble on his face was thicker than usual, but the bruises on his face had started to heal and a little bit of color had returned to his face. It was only a matter of time before he woke up, she reminded herself.

"Hey, Mom," Tracey said, interrupting her daze, and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Jimmy stood behind her, shifting on his feet anxiously. "We...we're gonna head out for a little bit. You sure you don't wanna come?"

Amanda shook her head. "You guys go ahead. I need to stay here, anyway."

"You're allowed to leave his side more than a couple times a day, you know. Nothing bad is gonna happen to him here," Tracey said softly.

"I know that. I... I just don't want him to be alone in case he wakes up," Amanda said, earning sad looks from her kids. "I'll be fine. Honestly. You two go. You're young, you have lives."

They left and, despite their protests, she could tell they were glad to get away from the place for once. She turned back to Michael, who was unsurprisingly still unconscious, and started to look through the pile of DVDs on the table. "Alright, darling, what will it be today…?"

She'd brought the DVDs along with their old DVD player from home (luckily Lester had already had a TV in the warehouse) and had been playing a few of his favorite movies every day. Part of her watched them in hopes that he-somewhere deep in his unconscious mind-could hear them; the other part watched them because they reminded her of him. Yesterday had been _both_ of the Shoulder of Orion movies and a Phil Collins concert tour DVD (which she had admittedly enjoyed). Today, though, she wasn't quite sure.

"Rum Runner or Vinewood Zombie?" she said under her breath. _Decisions, decisions,_ she thought, but ended up picking the former. It had always been his favorite and to be honest, she'd always _hated_ Vinewood Zombie.

She had just put the movie on and sat back down when Trevor walked in. He glanced at the TV, smiling a little as if recalling some fond memory. "Ah, I remember this one. He never shut the hell up about it."

"Just be grateful it's not Vinewood Zombie," Amanda said, smirking. She looked over at her husband's psychotic best friend that she'd known longer than almost anyone, and sighed. "Hey...I'm, ugh, I'm sorry for yelling at you when you brought him in...shit was just so crazy and I was so worried. I guess...I guess I just wanted to say thank you for getting him out of that hellhole…"

"You saying thank you? Wow, that is probably the most mature thing I've ever heard you say, Mandy," Trevor laughed. "These past few months have _really_ changed you, huh?"

"I guess they have," she said, smiling slightly as she looked back on all of the chaos of those past few months, the past few _years_ even. At least something good came out of it, she reflected, glancing down at the wedding ring she'd finally started wearing again. One question still lingered in the back of her mind, though. "I need to know something, though, Trevor: why did you help us? Michael told me you, um, found out-uh, you two had a fight and have wanted to kill each other since…"

Trevor nodded along to her words, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. "Well...I _was_ gonna tell Franklin to go fuck himself, but then the kids started asking me and...I don't know. Those two deserve to have a father, no matter how much of a treacherous fucking _snake_ he is. Plus, he's obviously had his fair share of karma lately," he said, gesturing to Michael's unconscious form. "And what's the fun in killing him if I don't get to make fun of him anymore? He may be an asshole, but he's _our_ asshole."

"That might just be the nicest thing I've _ever_ heard you say, Trevor," she said, shocked. "There might be hope for you yet. A small, tiny minuscule, maybe…"

"Hey, don't think this'll be a regular thing, okay? I got a reputation to uphold," Trevor said with a chuckle as he turned around and started towards the door.

"He did miss you, you know," she said suddenly. Trevor stopped dead in his tracks, but still faced away from her, making her continue. "I don't know if that helps anything, but...he did."

Trevor's fists clenched at his sides, and he was practically seething with rage when he said, "If he _did_ , which I _doubt,_ " he trailed off for a second, taking a deep breath. "...then _why_ did he play dead for ten years without a call or _anything_?" He turned around to face her, but instead of anger, all she saw was pain and sadness.

"Look, Trevor, you of all people should know how much bullshit this whole 'male pride' thing is," she said bitterly. "You and I know him better than anyone, and I _know_ that he missed you. The first night we moved here, I was unpacking all the boxes and he just...sat there, staring at the TV. You know how bad it was the first few months, it was on every news station: 'the late, great Michael Townley.' He sat there, every night for three months, looking through every channel, just hoping to find anything that said you were alive. Every night, I tried to get him to come to bed, but he just said he'd 'be there soon' and stayed there until 5am," she said, voice growing soft and shaky. "He did miss you, Trevor."

"I...I need to fucking think about this," Trevor said before storming out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him.

She looked down at the floor, sighing, before glancing back up to Michael. She grabbed his hand, trying to ignore the thick, spongy layer of bandages around his wrist, and squeezed it tightly. "You better wake up soon…" she whispered.

About a couple minutes later after Trevor left, Franklin came in. "Hey, what's up with Trevor? Dude ran out of here looking depressed as shit…"

Amanda waved his concerns off dismissively. "Nothing. Just drama that happened over a decade ago…" she groaned, putting her head in her hands. "Tell me something, Franklin: do _all_ men have to be as difficult as possible? I mean, my husband, my son, Trevor, all of them..."

Franklin laughed a little as he sat down in the chair on the opposite side of Michael's bed. "I really shouldn't be the one talking, but yeah, I'm pretty sure they do," he said.

She gave the young man a crooked smile before looking down at Michael. She gently ran her thumb along his wedding ring, finger sweeping back and forth against the cool metal. "We weren't always like this," she said. "So hateful. We used to be happy, but I guess he doesn't talk about that time much, huh?"

"Uh, not really, no. He only told me a few things about, uh, about how it went downhill with y'all," Franklin said sheepishly. "I still don't know what happened with you, him, and Trevor back in North Yankton."

"Well…" she said. "Let me tell you, then. It was 1990 when I first met him. Back then, I was still Amanda Cooper, a college dropout turned stripper with enviable hair, no money, and no real plans. One night, this _guy_ and his friends show up at the club I worked at. They're all wasted, but hey so was I. I had my eye on one of them, but then this guy keeps trying to flirt with me. I thought he was kind of a cocky asshole at first," she said, smirking at Michael.

"...but he was cute and charming then one thing led to another and he took me home. He was a hot bad boy and I was a hot bad girl, so we kept seeing each other. We dated for a few months, feelings got involved, and then next thing I knew, I was pregnant. He...he proposed a couple weeks later, in the middle of a snowball fight we had. So fucking cheesy," she laughed, wiping a stray tear away from her cheek. "Tracey came along and then two years later, Jimmy did, the little shit. It was hard, with him having that _job_ , but we made it work. We loved each other and that's all that matters, right?" she asked, earning a nod from Franklin.

"Right," she continued shakily. "But one day, about a few weeks after he almost got killed during a job, he tells me about this guy he met. This FIB agent he made a deal with behind my back. I knew we needed to get out and come to Los Santos...but he didn't even tell me about it until a week beforehand. I just wish he would've…" she trailed off. "So, we get to Los Santos and we're happy for a good few years. We both should've seen it coming, though…"

Franklin finally interrupted her for the first time since she'd started talking. "Seen what coming?"

"That we weren't meant for this…that we never were gonna be one of those happy, normal suburban couples, but we kept pretending like we could be, even though we were both miserable. I tried to help him for a while, until I just...stopped. We pushed each other away, but we kept pretending everything was fine. Well...we did until one day I came home and found him in bed with a stripper." She hung her head for a moment, blinking back the tears from the memory. "We both started drinking too much after that. That was three years ago, and I'm pretty sure you can guess what happened since then…"

Franklin leaned back in the chair and let out a deep breath. " _Wow_ ," he said. "You two are some of the most fucked up people I've ever met…"

She managed a small, weak laugh. "Yeah, I get that a lot," she said. "I treated him like _shit_ , Franklin, and I just can't stop thinking about how he could've died without me ever making it up to him."

"Man...I love the dude like a second father, but to me, it sounds like you _both_ fucked up," Franklin said. "He _loves_ you, though. He ain't perfect, but he does. I know you love his crazy ass, too. I think y'all are gonna be alright in the end. I saved his ass from something like this about a month ago, just before you two got back together and after Trevor found out about that whole Brad thing, and the first thing he asked me about was you-"

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Wait…something like _this_ happened to him a month ago?" she said, gesturing to Michael's beaten, bruised body.

A look that she could only describe as saying _"oh, shit"_ crossed Franklin's face. "Uh...it's not really my place to start talkin' about it, but I'd ask him about it when he wakes up. I think it fucked him up more than he likes to talk about." He paused, glancing down at his phone, and sighed. "I should go check on Trevor's ass, though. Make sure he hasn't done anything _too_ bad…"

"Okay," she said, gripping Michael's hand even tighter than she had beforehand. "Thank you, Franklin. For bringing him back to me…"

"Ah, don't thank me, Mrs. De Santa," Franklin said, smiling at her. "Good luck with him," he told her before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

Amanda looked back over to Michael, sighing. With her free hand, she gently stroked his face and the fading bruises on it. "What the hell do you get yourself into…?" she whispered. In hindsight, it explained a lot: the nightmares that he couldn't seem to shake lately, the way he'd winced walking around the first few days she'd came home, the new scars that she wasn't able to bring herself to ask about…

"I swear to God, when you wake up, you are _not_ leaving my sight again…" she muttered, stroking his matted hair back from his forehead. When he woke up, they were going to start again and this time, they were gonna do it _right_. She couldn't bear the thought of the alternative. No, not anymore. "I love you so much, Michael…"

She stood up, fluffing Michael's pillows and making sure he'd be as comfy as possible when he got up. Too focused on the task at hand, she didn't notice him start to stir awake or open his eyes. She didn't even notice him try to (unsuccessfully) sit up until he finally said something:

"Hey there, nurse…"


End file.
